Betsy followed him with her eyes. “Look here, Mr. Irving. I love Rosalie Vincent.”
The pedestrian stopped, and hugged the speaker’s thin shoulders.
“And I don’t want to have any feelin’ stirred up against her. If you take any interest in her, just follow my advice, and while we’re all together here, don’t notice her, and, above all, don’t speak about her.”
“She’s like the bit of porcelain going down the river among the earthen jugs,” burst forth Irving.
“Then don’t throw a rock at her,” returned Betsy. “She’s got a ticklish enough time without that. Where are your things, Mr. Irving?” Betsy started from her chair in a sudden panic.
“Then have you any plan, Clever Betsy?” he persisted. “’Tisn’t enough just to be fond of her and—and mope.”
“You sassy boy!” exclaimed Betsy, concealing her inward exultation that Rosalie had a friend at court, albeit a dangerous one. “You mind your business and I’ll mind mine; and it wasn’t ever to mope.”
“Good for you, you old dear! I know you’ll do something for that—that wood-nymph.”
“Irving Bruce, give me your mendin’. Do you suppose there’ll be any naps till I get back?”